


Midnight

by Kiyaar



Category: Marvel 616
Genre: Ficlet, M/M, Mafia AU, PWP, fluff!, with some incidental offscreen blood splatter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-11-22 04:45:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11372850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiyaar/pseuds/Kiyaar
Summary: “Careful,” Steve says, jumping down with his gun in hand. “You’ll get blood on those fancy shoes of yours. Some might say it’s sloppy.”





	Midnight

Steve Rogers sits at the edge of the docks and daubs blood from his face with the rag he keeps in his back pocket. 

It’s a good day.

It was a milk run, all told. The deep-pocketed asshole in question bled out hours ago, his keys are jingling in Steve’s pocket, and his body is somewhere downriver. 

All in a day’s work. And his – employer – will be pleased. 

It’s late, now. Not so late, he finds, when he glances at the fancy watch he’s wearing. A gift. He’d never buy it for himself, but – 

But. 

He puts two thick fingers under his collar and pulls. It’s hot, but not torrid, not like it usually is in July, not like it should be by the water. His jacket is already slung over the corner of the crate he’s perched on, his leather gloves (another gift) slapped over one knee. 

He was careful. Clean. Nothing to ruin the leather, just some spatter on his face. On his collar. He sighs. He supposes he’ll walk home in his undershirt. He messes his hair up. He’s already sweating. He’s broad, he can look the part. He’s no stranger to grime. It’s just that he cleans up especially nice now, since - 

“You know,” comes that scotch-smooth baritone, “Sixty-eight percent of men prefer belts to braces, now.” A snicker. “Old man.” 

Steve Roger’s not a stranger to glamour these days, either. 

“Just doing my part,” Steve says. His voice feels raspy. “I hear those boys across the pond need the leather more than I do.” He slides his Thompson onto his lap and thumbs the magazine back into place. 

“You know,” Steve smirks. “It’s bad form for a man like you to walk down here at night.”

It’s a lie, of course. Nothing is bad form for Tony Stark, with his sparkling blue eyes and his dapper three-piece suit and his perfect patent-leather oxfords, standing here in the sunbaked filth. Tony Stark, with his perfectly parted hair under his hair and his smug-as-hell smile, Tony who could saunter into hell and charm the devil. 

And if he isn’t wearing suspenders under that fancy vest Steve isn’t a flit. 

“I like to see to quality control myself,” Tony says, and toes at the blood pooling in the gravel. 

“Careful,” Steve says, jumping down with his gun in hand. “You’ll get blood on those fancy shoes of yours. Some might say it’s sloppy.” 

Tony sticks his hands deep in his pockets and pivots back to look at Steve in the moonlight. “You’ve already gotten blood on that pretty face of yours,” he says. “I hear you can get in trouble for that.” 

“You know, I hear there’s a thing called an alibi,” Steve says, and starts to unbutton his shirt. “It generally doesn’t involve visiting the scene of the crime.” 

“Ah, but how else would I get face time with my favorite thug?” 

“Assassin,” Steve grouses, and shrugs his suspenders off his shoulders. 

Tony shrugs. “Po-tay-to, po-tah-to.” 

“Does this mean we should call the whole thing off?” Steve says, and he knows he’s not sitting alone in the dark anymore, knows that his smile is completely self-indulgent, and doesn’t care in the slightest. He pulls his shirt off and slides his suspenders back up to sit on his shoulders. 

Tony leans in to pull at them, and Steve’s throat goes dry. 

“You’ve already done the job,” Tony whispers against Steve’s neck, the brim of his hat tickling at Steve’s ear. “And you haven’t been paid.” 

“I have a source says you're good for it,” Steve sighs, and Tony’s hands aren’t in his pockets anymore. 

“Am I?” Tony says, and sticks his hand down the front of Steve’s trousers. 

“Tony.” 

“Mr. Stark,” Tony says, and his lips just graze the corner of Steve’s mouth. He can smell Tony’s aftershave, the wine he had with dinner, the oak of his expensive cigars. 

“Tony,” Steve’s mouth says. “Not here.” Tony is tangling his hand around in Steve’s briefs, and Steve is hard, but there's the occasional automobile breezing through, distantly, he can hear them, a few blocks away, but what if someone – Tony can’t weather that scandal, no matter how powerful he is - 

“Stop thinking,” Tony says, and sinks to his knees on the gravel and thumbs over the pleats to unfasten Steve’s pants. "Let me compensate you." 

“Nuh,” Steve gasps, and bangs his head back against the crate he’s leaning against. The muzzle of his gun slides into the gravel, and he’ll have to clean it later, he’ll have to – 

Tony’s mouth latches onto him, and Steve decides not to argue with the most powerful man in Manhattan. 

“You gonna do this every time I kill someone for you,” Steve gasps. 

Tony sucks. The noise of it is so obscene Steve wonders that they haven’t been discovered. 

He’s a little harder for it, he thinks, and he tangles his fingers in Tony’s hair, shameless, and thrusts. 

**Author's Note:**

> Another snippet! [Rebloggable link.](http://kiyaar.tumblr.com/post/107182070638/stevetony-midnight) I'm kiyaar on tumblr!


End file.
